


Blond Hair, Blue Eyes

by Fyifae



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2019-12-29 22:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyifae/pseuds/Fyifae
Summary: Portgas D. Ann has a type.





	1. Sabo

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I’ve been itching to write for a long time. Seriously, this fandom needs more non-Luffy genderbend fics.

The first time she sees the boy with the funny clothing, she instantly doesn’t like him. His shirt is too white, hat too sturdy, coat too pristine _. He doesn’t belong here,  _ Ann thinks, with a glare from the top of a trash mound. Her grip on her pipe tightens. As she opens her mouth to ask who the hell he is, the boy notices her presence and looks up. There is a flash of confusion on his face before it turns into delight.

 

“Oh, wow, I didn’t think there’d be another kid living here!” His smile is blinding, his missing tooth failing to dim it. “I’m Sabo! What’s your name?”

 

The young girl sneers, “I don’t live here, dumbass.”  _ And neither do you,  _ she’d say, but she has spoken too much already. He’s no one, she doesn’t care. She should be hunting dinner, not making idle chat. 

 

She turns around and jumps down sprinting back to the forest. She ignores his calls to wait and slow down, easily maneuvering through the gargantuan trees.

 

But he’s a ‘persistent little shit’, as Dadan likes to put it, months later when the Bluejam debacle happened and he all but forced her to take him in—exactly the way he had wormed into her life. He’s crass and smart, understanding and so, so, so kind. He has never judged her of who her father is. She has found it hard to believe until this morning, when  _ his _ father called out to him after the ramen dine n’ dash.

 

She’s dark to Sabo’s light, stupid compared to his educated mind, a ball of fury to his never ending patience. They’re nothing alike, except for the fact that they have assholes for fathers.

 

She lies on top of stolen blankets inside their pirate treehouse. The night is calm save for the cicadas playing a steady rhythm to the blinking of the stars. Luffy, the light of her life, is sleeping soundly next to her. Sabo lies on the other side of their little brother, just in case he rolls down into the forest like a rubber ball. It certainly won’t be the first time.

 

Unlike her brothers, she’s wide awake. It’s weird. They are the center of many troubles, but in the moments like this, she’s content.

 

“Ann? Are you still up?”

 

She turns to Sabo’s voice. He likes to cover his head with the blanket when he sleeps; it’s off of him now.

 

“Mmyeah,” she says.

 

“I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about today.”

 

“Then shut off your brain.”

 

He snorts at her snappy answer. He has always seem to be immune to her ferociousness. “I’d do it if I could.”

 

“What do you want me to do? Knock you out?”

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll try harder.”

 

A comfortable silence sweeps over them. The night breeze almost put her to sleep when he speaks again.

 

“About today, I’m really sorry.”

 

“Sabo,” she warns.

 

He ignores it. “I’m sorry for not telling you my parentage, even though you had told me yours.”

 

“I’ve forgiven you already,” she grunts, “go the fuck to sleep.”

 

It speaks volumes about their friendship that she can  _ feel  _ him crack a smile, even though he’s facing the other way and she has her head buried in her arm.

 

“You know, rather than royal women, I’d rather marry you, Ann.”

 

Blood rushes into her cheeks. She can’t sleep for hours into the night, face as red as newly ripe tomato the whole time.


	2. Sanji

There’s a ruckus inside the floating restaurant. Deuce grips her arm, herding her to wait near the side railings as a group of pirates are kicked out one by one, each flying in a beautiful arc from the open door and into the ocean.

 

“I think you’ll need to pay in this one,” he says. Ann agrees with a sigh. Some things just can’t be helped. At least they’re not broke, having looted a rival pirate ship just that morning before burning it to ashes.

 

Their table is round and seats two. The young, fidgety waiter mistakenly calls them a couple and almost shits himself when Ann denies it after doubling over, whole body shaking with laughter.

 

Deuce picks a pasta dish and a glass of water. She orders everything on the menu.

 

“This place looks fancy,” she observes while waiting for their food. Restless feet give away her (mostly) concealed excitement. She’s  _ starving _ .

 

“There’s a bunch of sailors, but there’s mostly regular civilians. That’s interesting.” Deuce, as always, starts humoring her but ends up being more into the conversation than she is.

 

When this happens, Ann repays the favor by humoring him back. “How can you be sure they’re civilians? They can be pirates, like us, or fuckin’ marines in disguise. I heard they do that.”

 

Deuce turns his head. “Look at that.” Ann obediently complies. There’s a group of giggling girls in the corner, their dresses sparkly, faces painted and hair curled to perfection.

 

“You’re right,” Ann concedes. No one can stand, much less fight, on a pirate ship with  _ those  _ shoes.

 

Sucks for them, because a whirlwind tears through the kitchen door and to their table. Fortunately, it stops just before it hits them, revealing a young boy in a too-big fancy suit, head and hands poised to hold plates of dessert.

 

“The hell,” Deuce says.

 

Ann swallows her laughter. It comes out sounding like she’s got something stuck in her throat. She watches the boy flirt with the girls unabashedly, eyebrows curly eyes filled with hearts.

 

“He’s cute,” she decides.

 

Deuce looks at her weirdly. Ann just grins. She straightens in her seat, pops out the first few buttons of her shirt and pushes her chest out in a way that definitely accentuates her bikini-clad assets.

 

Maybe she won’t have to pay for this meal after all.

  
  
  
  


 

[Three years later, she sees a blond man with curly eyebrows swooning at her on her brother’s ship. The sauna-hot air has made him forgo his usual suit for a simplistic desert gear, but she still knows it’s him. He doesn’t seem to recognize her though. Maybe it’s the shorter hair, or perhaps her Whitebeard Commander status has broken something in his brain.

 

She lights up his cigarette. He flusters. She smiles.

  
_ Thanks for the food. _ ]


	3. Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the sea where the sun shines a little brighter, Portgas D. Ann has her first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the crackest ship in this fic. It’s tragic that after 900+ chapters we still know so little about the Kid Pirates. What’s vaguely confirmed though is the fact that Killer is the responsible older brother figure to a more violent red Luffy. Needless to say, I took that notion and sprinted.

They’ve just left the whale and its odd, flower-headed doctor who looked at her like he knows something she doesn’t, when she says to the crew, “Let’s go to the South Blue.”

 

“What.” Deuce, as always, is the pinnacle of eloquence.

 

“C’mon.” She grins. Something about the sunny sky and rushing waves remind her of those days when she’d hang out with her brothers by the cliffside, dreaming of the future when they’ll be free to roam the seas. It reminds her that  _ this is it _ , there’s still reasons to be alive, that she  _ is  _ alive, and that the sole reason for that fantastic feat is her loving mother, who came from a quaint little paradise in South Blue.

 

“But the Calm Belt-“

 

Saber slaps Deuce’s back, stopping him from saying any more. “Aye, aye, captain’s orders!”

 

Her first mate shoots him a glare but shuts up anyway. Miharl straightens his top hatted head from studying their brand new log pose and asks, “Do you have a destination in mind, Ann?”

 

She nods. “Baterilla.”

  
  
  
  


Crossing a sea without wind or waves while constantly trying to evade death via sea king is surprisingly fun. The journey also ends quicker than expected. Saber, their resident handyman who is in the process of crafting her a fire powered engine, urges her to test out the first prototype. What happens next is the feeling of weightlessness as the Spadille rockets through the air; a feeling Ann will never forget.

 

Saber’s device saves them from being swallowed too many times, until it melts from overheating. Thankfully, the breeze picks up just in time.

 

“I can’t believe we survived that,” Deuce says. He’s drenched and covered in fishy entrails.

 

Ann has always believed, of course. She might loathe herself most days, but the crew she has scrounged up is nothing short of awesome.

 

They really in need of a cook, though. It’s a tragedy that none of them do well in the kitchen. She almost wishes she had kidnapped the little blond chef when she had the chance. After surviving on bland stew and charred protein for so long, she’s starving for real food.

 

Once they land on the nearest island, Ann runs straight for a restaurant. She passes mountains of scrap metal by the beach, which reminds her of Grey Terminal and the times spent there with her dead best friend. Ann’s stomach churns. Great, now she’s hungry  _ and _ sad.

 

_ Think of happy thoughts,  _ she chants.  _ Of Luffy.  _ It makes her feel slightly better, but does nothing to sate her hunger.

 

A desperate plea cuts through the air, coming from behind one of the towers of junk. Her body starts climbing before her mind can register what’s happening. Below is a blond guy holding a bloody sword, the body at his feet gasping its last breath.

 

Suddenly she’s a little girl again, looking down at a noble’s son. She blinks and she’s a pirate, staring at a murderer. The details are all different, but the scene is undoubtedly familiar.

 

In her daze, he finishes robbing the dead body for all its worth then kicks it to the side. He notices her faster than Sabo did.

 

“Who are you?” He asks before she can.

 

She jumps down, because Makino once told her shouting a conversation isn’t polite. Even five feet apart, she can’t see his eyes, which are hidden by a mop of blond hair that extends down to his waist in waves. Scars litter his otherwise handsome face.

 

She introduces herself. “I’m Ann, a pirate.”

 

He lunges with his sword. He’s quick—she only has enough reflexes to turn elemental. The blade cuts through flames harmlessly. What little shows of his face contorts in surprise. He jumps back (of what he assumes is) a safe distance in the aftermath.

 

“What the fuck, asshole?” she roars, “I was trying to be nice!”

 

“You have eaten a devil fruit.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Wow, what tipped you off?”

 

He ignores her sarcasm. “You’re not from around here. I’ve never seen you before,” he says, “you’re not of Wackmill’s crew.”

 

“Do you get off from stating the obvious?”

 

He discards the sword. It’s far too worn and rusted to be a family heirloom, just junk like the rest of their surroundings. He steps over it as he approaches her.

 

“I’m sorry, I assumed you were one of them,” he says. He offers her a hand. “I’m Killer.”

 

That’s one social cue Ann knows how to reciprocate. His palms are calloused but warm. “Nice name.”

 

He shrugs. “It’s better what my mother gave me.”

 

“Funny, because I like mine more than what my father chose.” The Gol part, of course. She has always liked her first name—it’s short and easy to spell. Portgas D. Ann has a better ring to it anyways.

 

They walk together. “So why’d you kill that guy?”

 

“He’s one of Wackmill’s. They’ve been harrassing my little brother,” he answers.

 

She nods in approval. “I get that. I have a little brother too, he’s impossible. Most reckless human being in all the Blues.”

 

He nods in understanding. “Mine’s a...” he cracks a small smile, “..kid.”

 

She starts off mirroring his expression and ends up grinning. “My brother is going to be the Pirate King.” There, she has to say it. It’s been a while since she had bragged about Luffy.

 

Surprisingly, Killer doesn’t laugh like all the others she has declared it to, instead tilts his chin in defiance. His voice is cold and sure as he states, “No, my brother is.”

 

Ann snorts. As Roger’s only heir, she thinks she knows who suits the crown best. She won’t settle for less than Luffy finding the One Piece.

 

Then her stomach grumbles, loud enough for him to stare and for her to blush. (He’s tall, dangerous, handsome  _ and _ blond; she’s a teenage girl. Give her a break.)

 

“Do you like pasta?” He breaks their brief silence.

 

“I like everything,” she says, shy smile and rosy cheeks. “I eat a lot, though.”

 

“My treat,” he offers, “An apology, for swinging that sword at you.”

 

“Well, if you put it that way…” Free food and good company. Who is she to refuse?

 

He takes her to a seaside bar. They eat, they talk, they drink a bit too much. The dead man’s money is used to pay their substantial tab.

 

When Deuce comes with a rolled map to Baterilla in his hand, she even kisses Killer goodbye. Maybe it’s the good time, maybe it’s the liquid bravery. Then again, she’s always brave.

 

Her lips tingle as she walks away. Ann doesn’t think about it too much. One thing is sure: she doesn’t regret it. That’s all that matters.

  
  
  
  
  


[She doesn’t see his wanted poster when it arrives with a stack of others and the day’s newspaper, too busy showing off Luffy’s first bounty to all her new, pirate siblings. Firefist never meets Massacre Soldier again.]


	4. Marco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a lot of thinking, I scrapped the Paulie chapter and wrote this real quick. This chapter is definitely the hardest to write, since it's by far the most popular pairing so I felt I had to live up to it, idk. The next chapters are done and will be posted in the next days.

Ann has decided on taking Whitebeard’s head a long time ago. Gold Roger’s rival, The World’s Strongest Man. The man she’d have to defeat to surpass _him_.

 

After the chat with Shanks, her crew is aware of her plans. Everyone tries to talk her out of it—except for Deuce, who has long given up on changing her mind.

 

“It’s something I have to do,” she says. “You guys can stay out of it.”

 

They’re a good crew, so of course they won’t. Miharl sighs but starts digging news of The Whitebeards’ last routes anyways. Deuce helps him collect charts of their islands. Skull comes in and starts reciting everything he knows about Edward Newgate and his sixteen commanders. Ann listens.

 

After five days exhausting herself fighting Jinbei to a standstill, all Ann can remember about their brief encounter with Whitebeard is fire, smoke, and a lot of pain. All of this comes crashing into her head as she jolts awake, hands blazing only to be stopped by a strong, deft grip.

 

"You're not healed yet," the guy says. He has a funny face; kind of long and rectangular, with droopy eyes and arched eyebrows. His blond tufts of hair makes him look like a pineapple.

 

She glances at her held wrists, just to make sure. Blue flames sweeps over his skin, negating any damage her fire inflicts.

 

Thanks to Skull, she knows: this is the Phoenix. And Ann doesn't care.

 

She kicks up, trying to dislodge his grip—keyword: _try,_ as his hands don't budge. A sharp pain reverberates through her side for her trouble.

 

"Hold still, I haven't done with your ribs yet," he chides, gently pushing her back to lying on the bed. In her pain, Ann lets him. She tenses when he reaches out under her tattered shirt and lays his hand just below the side of her breast. Blue flames flare, and there is a cool sensation as she feels her bones mend together.

 

"And that's all the internal damages," he says, hand retracting to adjust his glasses.

 

"Where's my crew?" Ann grits out.

 

He adjust the IV bag connected to her arm. "Don't worry, they're safe." She notices too late that he puts something in it. "Now rest." Darkness takes her under.

  
  


The next time she wakes, he isn't there. Ann uses this opportunity to bust out, staggering dazedly until she finds blue skies. 

 

She breathes fresh sea breeze into her lungs. Sea. That is all she can see, an endless expanse with the previous island long gone from sight. She collapses onto the floorboards, cradling her head in her hands.

 

"Hey, you're awake!" She looks up and finds a redheaded guy with a ridiculous pompadour, chef whites and dumb grin. "I'm Fourth Division Commander, Thatch! Since you're joining the crew, how about getting to know each other better?"

 

 _Is he serious right now?_ "Shut up!" Ann shouts.

 

"I kid, I kid," he retreats in mirth, sitting nearby on the railing. Ann glares as he babbles about her crew, unprompted.

 

Ann worries for the Spades, but can't bare to see their faces after failing to protect them; failing her mission she has stubbornly insisted they went on to.

 

"Shut up," she repeats, then belatedly realizes the state of her hands. "Why am I free?"

 

The guy's laugh is irritating. Ann already regrets asking, even more when he answers with some cocky shit, like that they don't need to shackle her to keep her prisoner. She grits her teeth.

 

She'll show them.

  
  


Four dozen failed assassination attempts later, Ann once again slinks into the corner of a deserted hallway to nurse her wounds. Everyone else seems to be on deck celebrating crewmember #657's birthday, so there's more places vacant than most days. Or not so empty after all, as she hears the increasingly loud footsteps of several drunken men.

 

She dabs alcohol she has snagged from the infirmaries on a particularly deep scratch, mind set to ignore them. But then they say her name.

 

"Portgas is fuckin' crazy," guy 1 slurs, "but with an ass like tha', I won' mind havin' her on the crew."

 

Guy 2 guffaws. "Ya'r right! Did'ja see her attempt today? Bitch's top almost slipped off."

 

"Shame she's not at ta' party, we could'a given her some loosenin'," guy 3 suggests. They all laugh.

 

Ann balls her fists, but does nothing as they keep running their mouths about someday "sparring" with her then bending her over. She breathes in and out slowly. This is _nothing_.

 

She has spent a good chunk of her childhood running around the seediest part of Low Town, so sexually demeaning jeers are not foreign to her. She sometimes even welcome it; at least it's not about killing the demon's child. The foul things people say about Roger and his kin never fails to leave her feeling cold and empty (aside from murderously angry). The things people say about her body still pisses her off, but at least they are referring directly to her being, not her father's theoretical offspring. Her father was a monster, but these people are just pieces of shit spouting empty declarations in some deserted hallway because they're too chicken to say it to her face.

 

This, she can deal with. In fact, it doesn't even hurt.

 

"Had enough of the party?" A familiar voice drawls, sober and frighteningly sharp.

 

"Commander Marco!" The drunks scramble to stand straight. "We're just...uh...tryin' ta get some fresh air!"

 

The phoenix hums. "As pirates, you're free to say whatever you like. But there's lines you shouldn't cross, especially since Ann will be part of the family soon," he says. The three idiots don't dare breathe. Ann listens with bated anticipation. "I am disappointed."

 

Marco's voice is even colder when he states, "As of today, you're off the First Division. Grovel to the other commanders to take you in, I don't give a fuck. They will all hear about this incident, though." There's a pause, in which Ann's meagre observation haki senses he uses to glance at her concealed direction. "Or you can apologize to Ann," he decides. "Maybe I'll reconsider then."

 

For the first time since boarding the Moby Dick, Ann feels warm.

  
  


More assassination attempts than Ann bothers to count later, she is back on the spot against the railings, head cradled between knees as her first day outside the infirmary on the ship. When Marco places a hot dish in front of her, she lets him. She stays still as he looks beyond the horizon.

 

Realizing he isn't leaving, Ann tells him what he wants to hear. "They've apologized. You can take them back into your division now."

 

"The offer's expired. They're Fossa's problem now." He turns to look at her. "That's not why I'm here."

 

Ann holds his stare. His eyes are a piercing blue.

 

He gets on one knee in front of her. "How long do you plan on doing this? Either take Pop's mark, or we can drop you off at an island where you can start over. Make up your mind."

 

Ann doesn't answer. Marco sighs, stands up, poises to leave. Ann chokes out her question.

 

"Why do you call him Pops?"

 

His smile is blinding. "Because he calls us his children."

 

Ann cries.

  
  


The Fourth Division has prepared a grand feast full of her favorites. Every crewmember is there somehow, clapping and cheering as she is named Second Division Commander. Ann stands in awe, gulping back her tears.

 

"I..I," she tries to say something, anything. She looks over to Pops for encouragement. Instead, he gives her an understanding smile.

 

A pleasant weight settles on her shoulders. Ann turns her head to find Marco's face alarming and tantalizingly close.

 

"Come on, eat, it's your party," he offers a tiger meat on the bone. Ann eats it with a laugh.

 

On the whale boat with a thousand other misfits, she has never felt so complete.

  
  


["Ann," he had plead, begging her to stay. They all had begged her to stay. But she had been stubborn, and now she has to watch them all die for her.

 

 _It can't be a massacre,_ she tries to console herself as Oars Jr. and many others fall, _like Marco. He wouldn't die, couldn't even if he wanted to._

 

And then he gets cuffed. Ann screams when Kizaru shoots him. She counts the holes on his chest and drowns in guilt.

 

This isn't what she wanted. She hasn't spent three years with them. She hasn't even gone to every island in their territory yet. And though there had been plenty of chances and a few drunken kisses, she has never told Marco how she feels.

 

"I'm sorry," she wants to tell them. _You are all the best thing that has ever happened to me._ ]


	5. Interlude: Not Her Type

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ann and other blonds.

**Saber**

 

“I like your sense of style,” she says. The cowboy hatted man breaks out a grin. They chat, drive Deuce crazy, and are thick as thieves at the end of the day.

 

“Join my crew,” she can’t wait to ask a second more.

  
  
  


**Absalom**

 

“So you’re saying you almost got the flame powers?” Skull asks over dinner, thick scrapbook and pen ready on hand.

 

Deuce nods as he chews. “Yeah, Ann shared the fruit. She just happened to eat it first.” He swallows. “And I’m glad she did. I like being able to swim, thank you very much. Nothing's worth losing that.”

 

“Unless it’s the Clear Clear Fruit,” Saber chimes in, squeezing himself between the two men, “am I right, boys?”

 

Skull shakes his head. "No use dreaming about it. Some creep from Moria’s crew has it.”

 

A chorus of groans fills the room. “Dang it!” someone says. Saber shoves his plate forward before burying his face onto the table, flopping dramatically. “Well, women’s bath, maybe in another life…”

 

Deuce, along with a few other brainier guys, stay silent in consideration of the three girls on the crew. Banshee ignores them in favor of whipping up dessert. Cornelia rolls her eyes.

 

Ann frowns. “Why would you want to go to the women’s bath?” 

 

Everyone looks at her incredulously. She blinks her big, innocent eyes. Finally, Miharl speaks up. “To spy on naked women, Ann.”

 

Ann licks her spoon clean and points it at them from the head of the table. “Well, that’s just stupid,” she says, “if you want to see a girl nude, you just gotta ask nicely.”

  
  
  
  


**Paulie**

 

"WHAT ARE YOU WEARING!"

 

Ann turns and finds a red faced man, smoke coming out of his ears instead of his gaping mouth, as his cigarette has fallen onto the cobblestone, forgotten. He looks funny, so she stares.

 

A few seconds pass. He is still pointing at her.

 

Getting the hint, she glances down at her outfit of the day. "This top is one of my favorites," she assesses.

 

"It's a  _ bathing suit _ !"

 

"Yeah, and shorts," she agrees. She takes the last bite of her bountiful mizu mizu satay haul. The juices drip down onto her cleavage.

 

"Whoops." She wipes upwards with her hand, then licks her fingers clean. Delicious. The guy couldn't look more scandalized.

 

Ann shrugs. "At least it won't stain."

  
  
  
  


**Kalifa**

 

“That’s sexual harassment.”

 

Ann blinks. She stares at the mayor’s blonde secretary, still maintaining eye contact as Makino has coached her is polite many years ago.

 

“Don’t mind her, she’s crazy,” Paulie whispers in her ear. Then he is crouching in front of the leggy blonde, shielding what isn’t covered by her pencil skirt from view of Ann, who is dressed even less conservatively. “Can you believe she’s walking all around town as Iceburg’s aide in  _ this _ ?”

 

Ann lets the kick happen. The foreman should have known better than to ask for it.

  
  
  


**Cavendish**

 

Ann doesn’t know of him.

  
  
  


**Enel**

 

She jumps from the deck and flops onto the beach, belly first. The fluffy clouds sink a little with her weight. Pop’s laughter reverberates through the thin air. Marco chuckles as he steps towards her, his gaze warm on her tattooed back.

 

“First time on a sky island?” He sits down beside her. Their siblings run past them, the newbies acting as astonished as Ann feels.

 

“I never want to leave,” she says. It’s the truth. If she can freeze this moment— sunshine peeking between the clouds, her family joyous all around her—she would do it in a heartbeat.

 

Her cheeks redden as his fingers comb through her hair. It feels like heaven.

 

Then Thatch plants his ass next to them, a pumpkin-looking fruit lugged under one arm. Ann is disappointed when Marco immediately retracts his hand. He really shouldn’t have, as Thatch has seen it anyway. Why would he approach them otherwise?

 

“Sooo… the locals told me they almost got ziggity-zapped by some dude with long ears while we’re gone,” the chef says. Ann watches curiously as he unseathes one of his twin blades to carve out a perfect circle on the bottom of the fruit. He produces a straw seemingly out of nowhere and dunks it in. “Ladies first.”

 

Ann drags herself just enough to mouth the straw. Her eyes sparkle at the sweet and cool taste. 

 

Marco’s relaxed gait stiffens slightly. “Long ears?”

 

Thatch nods. “Blond hair, funky fashion. Proclaimed himself a god. A lightning logia, if I gotta guess by their description.”

 

“Was anyone hurt?” Ann asks, brows furrowed in worry. She nudges her drink in either boys’ direction but they refuse. She doesn’t think much about it; more for her.

 

The chef shakes his head. “Fortunately he had other plans and left quickly,” he says. “There’s a chunk of clouds gone in the town center, though.”

 

“What an asshole,” Ann decides. Defacing such divine fluffiness should be a sin. “We’ll kick his ass if he ever comes back.”

 

“Yeah,” both men promise in agreement.

  
  
  
  


**Doflamingo**

 

He’s tall, way taller than any man in a pink feather coat has any right to be, with a sinister smile and a vibe so twisted Ann senses him straight away when he walks into the plaza. Even with leagues of defenses and thousands of marines in between them, her stomach still churns unpleasantly.

 

_ Enemy,  _ her blood sings. Ann doesn’t know why, but she’s sure of it.

 

He’s the one who cut off Little Oars Jr.’s foot, later. Ann can only gape and seethe as he dare  _ laughs _ as her giant friend slowly but surely bleeds to death.

 

The seastone cuffs are unrelenting. Her wrists chafe and bruise for her struggle.

 

He spouts a speech in between the carnage, not a scratch on him. Save for Teach, she has never wanted to melt someone’s tongue off more.


	6. Whitebeard

It’s time for the Whitebeard Pirates annual spring cleaning—except it’s not spring, but there  _ is _ a lot of cleaning to be done. Every year, they set aside sixteen days to make sure their ships won’t be absolutely disgusting. There’s only so much regular sweeping and mopping can do. A crew that big needs “systematic purging”, as Izo likes to call it, before some forgotten clogged pipe or stray dirty sock spawns a plague that would wipe out all of them.

 

They do it per division, each chore decided by a simple luck of the draw. Ann, being the baby commander, gets to pick last. She doesn’t care though. As tragic as her life story is, she has plenty of luck.

 

“I can’t believe you!” Thatch shakily points an accusing finger.

 

Ann laughs it off. She teases by waving the slip of paper with  _ file sorting  _ written in Marco’s perfect script in between her fingers. It’s by far the least gross choice, beating Fourth Division’s  _ toilet duty  _ or Eleventh’s  _ cabin cleanse  _ by several hundred miles.

 

“You!” The chef changes target to their aloof first mate. Ann’s belly does a flip when Marco smirks lazily,  _ rust check _ in his hand. Second Division had that last year when Ann just joined. It took forever to inspect and replace every worn down metal joint of the ship, but all choices considered, it isn’t a bad pick.

 

The First Division finishes their task without a hitch. On the second day, Ann leads her division into the very cluttered room where they keep all their paperwork.

 

“Remind me why Marco still insists we do this, even though we’ll throw it all away anyways?” Ann laments as she moves another crate to the ground.

 

“WE’RE KEEPING THE IMPORTANT STUFF,” Deuce reminds the rest of the men, all busy sorting through stacks of papers on the floor—from inside the room to all the way down several hallways.

 

Ann only has the minimal reading and writing skills that Sabo had taught her, so she had relinquished herself of that task in favor of the brute work. Perks of being a commander.

 

She puts down the last crate of the stack, revealing the oldest wooden box in the room, filled to the brim with yellowing papers. On top, her biological father’s grinning face stares back at her.

 

Grey eyes widen. “This is…”

 

She hastily kneels and puts aside the Pirate King’s wanted poster. Beneath are more posters, sorted from highest to lowest bounty, all the way to the bottom of the box. Ann sees Kaido’s, Big Mam’s, even Marco’s and Shanks’ old bounties as she nears the bottom, and frowns when she doesn’t spot Pop’s.

 

She starts over from the Pirate King’s eerie crescent moon smile. She missed it the first time, but there it is, right underneath: WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE, EDWARD NEWGATE, below a picture of a man sporting the familiar white mustache, long hair flowing to his shoulders.

 

She bolts out the room.

 

“ANN!” Deuce calls her back, but she ignores him. Her face is hurting from her too wide grin, the wanted poster clutched carefully in her hands.

 

“Pops!” She shouts when she reaches the deck. He’s sitting on his big chair, drinking sake from his gigantic cup with Marco glowering at his side. She holds the poster out in front of them for all to see.

 

Her father laughs in that unique way of his. “I see you’ve found that old thing.”

 

“You had long hair!”

 

His smiles at her antics. “Yes, my blond locks were quite beautiful,” he reminisces. “Back in the day, we used to be mistaken as father and son all the time, didn’t we, Marco? Not that it’s false, of course.”

 

“We look nothing alike,” his first son deadpans.

 

Ann nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, Pops. You look so cool back then! Not that you don’t look cool now, because you are. Marco just looks the same.”

 

“I do not!”

 

Her grin is unfailing. Faintly, she can hear her former first mate's yells from the filing room.

 

“Ann, my daughter,” Whitebeard says, “let’s talk later after you finish your work, okay? Lest Deuce gets an aneurysm.”

 

“Okay, Pops!” She’d like that.

  
  
  
  


[Fire dances on the ground while blood is dripping from the big, big wound in his chest. Ann kneels on the crumbling earth, head pressed down as she answers his question. He isn’t just a good father, he’s the best one could ever have.

 

Her tears won’t stop flowing, not when she has turned around, coaxed into retreating, leaving the man she respects most behind to die for his children. She owes many people, but there’s no one else she’s more grateful to. 

 

_ Thank you for loving me.] _


End file.
